


Come on, baby, gimme some sugar

by carbonbased000



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: (yet), Alternate Universe - No Band, M/M, Making out in cars, Thunderstorms, Underage Drinking, fashion mistakes, warped 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/pseuds/carbonbased000
Summary: For the Warped 2020 Prompt Challenge. I got the prompt: “bad fashion.”Sure, Patrick doesn’t know anything about style, but even he can see how that outfit screams: “I like getting dressed in the dark,” and “emo is not a phase, mom.” To make matters worse, the guy laughs again, throwing his head back, and his shirt rides up a little, showing off a sliver of golden skin and two studded belts. As if one isn’t enough.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 32
Kudos: 55
Collections: Warped 2020





	Come on, baby, gimme some sugar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fluffy_Stuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffy_Stuff/gifts).



> Title is from [Sufjan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56bU7xAU1tM). This is kind of weird even for my standards, you’ve been warned <3

They get there early, when the stages are still empty, hordes of people milling about buying stuff. It looks more like a fair than a music festival, Patrick thinks — but then, he’s no expert. The irony of his first festival being the last Warped tour ever is not lost on him, though he’s not sure what it might mean for his possible future music career. He doesn’t even really know most of the bands playing today, despite Joe’s attempts to “modernize” his music tastes. Whatever. Everything’s so derivative anyway, might as well go straight to the original sources. 

It’s cloudy today, but oppressively hot, and the heat seems to get worse by the minute. Patrick deeply regrets wearing jeans; the occasional gust of air blowing through the rips at his knees only makes him more conscious of the fact that he’s basically steeping in his own sweat. Joe stands next to him, looking quite blissed out in black cargo shorts, Wayfarers, and a holey High on Fire t-shirt.

“How long till they start?” Patrick asks. Yes, he sounds like a sullen four-year-old and no, he doesn’t care. 

“Like an hour,” Joe says, looking at his phone. “Let’s take a look around, come on.” 

“What is there to look at?”

“Ever heard of people watching, Patrick? It’s a thing.”

Patrick relents. It’s too hot to get mad at Joe for dragging him here. It’s too hot to do anything.

They camp out in the shade of a merch trailer and make a game of counting Hot Topic Ramones shirts. They get to twenty-three before a particularly loud and annoying laugh interrupts Patrick's counting. He turns to find it belongs to a guy around his height who’s wearing a smile several sizes too big and black skinny jeans several sizes too small. The jeans are so tight they look painted on, and his twiggy legs end in a pair of oversized sneakers with neon yellow laces. He’s also wearing a weirdly-shaped t-shirt, too wide and too short, almost falling from one shoulder and almost, but not quite, showing skin at his midriff, with a white print that Patrick can’t quite make out. His arms are covered in tattoos.

Sure, Patrick doesn’t know anything about style, but even he can see how that outfit screams: “I like getting dressed in the dark,” and “emo is not a phase, mom.” To make matters worse, the guy laughs again, throwing his head back, and his shirt rides up a little, showing off a sliver of golden skin and two studded belts. As if one isn’t enough. 

Patrick’s about to point out this hot mess to Joe so that they can mock him together — it’s a bonding activity, okay, and it’s not like they’re going to do it to his face, so no one’s getting hurt, deservedly or not — when a loud clap of thunder makes them both jump. They raise their eyes to the sky, where clouds are gathering right above their heads, getting darker. 

“Uhm, Joe,” Patrick says. “Did you check the forecast?”

“No, I did not check the _forecast_ , Patrick. Do I look like my dad?”

“I mean. Yeah, a little bit?”

Joe scoffs, and props his sunglasses in his curls. “If it rains, it rains,” he pronounces.

“Wow, that’s deep, Joe, I can only hope to reach your level of wisdom someday.”

And so they continue, bitching each other out in pleasant familiarity, while Patrick tries to ignore the niggling worry at the back of his mind and deep in his stomach; he’s not an outdoors person, okay, and the heat is bad enough without a thunderstorm dangling over his head.

***

A couple of hours later, and the sky is leaden and menacing as ever, but not a drop of rain has fallen yet, and Patrick is starting to think that those clouds might be all talk and no precipitation. They’ve watched two bands play, with no great enthusiasm on anyone’s part. 

“We could totally do better than that,” Joe says, with a disdainful look at the band currently on stage, whose lead guitarist has just messed up a solo that didn’t even look that complicated. Maybe he suffers from stage fright too, Patrick thinks, shuddering — half from the idea of finally giving in to Joe’s pleading and cajoling and attempted bribery and getting up on a stage, and half from the now decidedly chilly breeze that’s insinuating itself between one sweaty body and the next. 

Someone on Patrick’s right emits an ear splitting whistle and claps jarringly when the mediocre band finally leaves the stage, and it’s like Patrick knows before he turns to look — yep. It’s Emo Boy. “They were great,” he’s saying to the dark-haired girl standing next to him. “Weren’t they great?” 

He’s beaming, and Patrick can’t help thinking that he has such a charming smile that one could almost forget his numerous failings of style and, like, basic manners. Emo Boy’s girl doesn’t seem to share Patrick’s appreciation for his smile, though. “Whatever,” she says, looking extremely bored. “Can we go get a drink now?”

Emo Boy visibly wilts, and something tugs in Patrick’s chest. He’s annoyed at the guy for almost deafening him with his whistling, he reminds himself.

“Dude,” Joe says, suddenly. “Oh man, look.”

“What?” Patrick tears his eyes away from that particular piece of drama and follows Joe’s gaze to a group of three girls in short skirts and fishnet tights and platform shoes — more people watching, he supposes, except they don’t look that weird, considering the context. But then he looks closer, and, oh no: the one in the middle is Marie from school, Patrick realizes with a sinking feeling. Joe and Marie have been dancing around each other for months now, and as much as Patrick would like to pretend he doesn’t get it, this is the perfect opportunity for Joe to finally fucking do something about it. So much for their bonding experience. 

People are starting to move to the other stages, and it’s crowded, but not too much. They can still maneuver comfortably between the small groups of people waiting around for the next band or whatever and see that Marie and her friends are headed towards one of the bars. 

“Let’s get a drink,” Joe suggests very casually. 

What’s even the point of getting a drink, Patrick thinks, when they can’t actually get a _drink_? But he’s a good friend, or at least he tries to be, so he nods and follows, resignedly.

Of course, Joe “bumps into” Marie, making a whole show of what a _coincidence_ it is to meet here, just _wild_ , and they start chatting about the bands they’ve seen and the ones they still need to see, and like, Patrick’s never seen Joe look so happy except when he’s high or playing guitar, so he leaves them to it, and takes it upon himself to procure the useless virgin drinks. 

Seeing the way the day is going, he’s not even surprised to find himself queuing right next to Emo Boy. He’s alone this time, unsmiling, and seems to have lost a bit of his sparkle. His clothes look even weirder up close, and Patrick figures out that the design on his shirt depicts two skeletons hugging each other. The guy looks up and meets his eyes, his lips flattening to hint at a smile, and Patrick realizes he’s been staring. 

“Sorry, I was just—” he blurts out, pointing at the guy’s chest like it’s a completely normal thing to do. Nothing to see here, move along. “Cute… skeletons.” 

“Thank you! I designed them,” the guy says, easy as anything, and he smiles at Patrick, the same ten-thousand megawatt thing he’d been wearing earlier. Only it’s closer now, and Patrick is hit with the full force of it. The guy’s got a really bad haircut, he tries to tell himself. Too long on the top, with messy highlights on the ends and an overgrown undercut. A _really terrible_ haircut. And yet, he kind of… makes it work? Like it complements his face shape and frames his eyes, which look kind of… ambery and warm? Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Patrick can’t quite make words work for him right then, but he’s saved by Joe, who materializes by his side, saying, all cheer, “Oh, hey Pete!” 

Joe’s arm is snug around Marie’s shoulders and they both look very pleased about this turn of events. Well, that was fast. Or not, considering they spent the best part of a school year engaging in their weird distance foreplay. 

“Pete?” Patrick asks, confused. Joe has been talking about a Pete for months. The Pete Joe has been talking about has a post-hardcore band and plays some kind of sport at college, but for some reason is apparently open to playing in another band with two high school students. Joe has been trying to convince Patrick to let him invite this allegedly awesome person to band practice (is it a band if it’s two guys in a basement with drums, a guitar, and a computer?) and Patrick has always shut him down, because they don’t know what they’re doing enough to have any kind of audience, yet, much less a more seasoned musician. 

“Hey, man,” apparently-Pete greets Joe, and they do some kind of weird high five thing that Patrick couldn’t master if his life depended on it. “How’s it going?”

“Swell,” Joe says, looking as upbeat as only a man with some serious hooking-up opportunities in his near future could. “This is my friend Patrick,” he announces, and then, clasping his shoulder in a frankly unnecessarily threatening way: “My _bandmate_ Patrick.”

This is a clear warning against denial and/or self-deprecation. Joe knows him too well. Patrick gives up on any hope of extricating himself from the situation just as Pete is saying, “Oh, hey. I’ve been meaning to come watch you guys practice. Your demo was pretty great.”

The thing is. As shy as he is, as terrified as he is of ever getting on a stage, making music is kind of everything Patrick wants to do in the world, and this guy — older, with an actual band that someone books for actual shows and, okay, _dressed like an idiot_ , but it’s not like Patrick’s got such good fashion sense — is showing some interest in their embryonic music project and like. He’s smiling again. So Patrick turns slightly towards him, trying not to lose his place in the queue, and says, “Hey,” smiling back. “You liked our demo? Not exactly your style, though, was it?” 

“Oh, you mean because of Arma? It’s cool, I listen to all kinds of stuff really. I really liked the folk rock vibes. It made me think of, like—” and then he trails off, and lowers his eyes, running a hand along the back of his neck where his hair is shaved short. 

“Of..?” Patrick asks.

“It’s probably stupid, but I was going to say Iron and Wine, or even Leonard Cohen, you know, I’m all about the sad songs, but I get it if I’m like, way off base.”

“No no, you’re not,” Patrick says, feeling a bit stunned that a person dressed like that knows Leonard Cohen. Talk about not judging a book by its cover. “Thank you. Uhm, you know— you can totally come to our next practice if you want.”

“Yeah?” Pete says, perking right back up. 

They’re almost at the head of the queue now, just a couple of people left in front of them, and Patrick blurts out, too fast, “Yeah, though I should warn you, we’re not a real band yet, we don’t even have a singer, I just fill in for now, I mean— right, Joe?”

“Right, Joe?” No answer. “Joe?”

Patrick turns to his right and sure enough, Joe isn’t standing next to him anymore. Instead, he’s making out with Marie against the side of a gazebo a few yards away. The traitor.

“Dude,” Patrick says, reproachfully, even though Joe will never hear him. Pete follows his gaze and laughs, but it’s much softer and less annoying than earlier, like they’re sharing the joke now. He’s right in front of the counter by now, and looks back at Patrick as if to ask for confirmation of something they already decided, saying: “Beer, right?”

 _I can’t_ , Patrick mouths, but Pete just smirks and says, “I got it.” He gets two. He doesn’t get carded. No one bats an eye. 

They stand next to each other, away from the busy queue but still under the relative shelter of the bar tent, and Patrick takes a few careful gulps from his bottle, some kind of artisan craft brand that is totally wasted on his inexperienced taste buds. 

“So listen,” Pete finally says. “My ex girlfriend suddenly remembered the reason for the ‘ex’ part, and your best friend ditched you — wanna stick together for a bit? Who did you want to see?”

Patrick rattles off a list of bands. It’s short — the lineup isn’t amazing, and most of it’s not exactly his cup of tea. Pete tells him a list of his own, most of it bands that Patrick’s never heard of. Apparently, Pete has friends in every local band playing today and in a few of the not-so-local ones as well. He also has fascinating stories about touring, and sleeping in vans, and being paid in pizza. It all sounds horribly uncomfortable and exactly like what Patrick would like to spend the rest of his life doing. 

He lets Pete drag him to see one of the unknown bands, but they’re not bad. The drummer is amazing, though, and covered in tattoos, and apparently, one of Pete’s many friends. At the end, Pete makes his obnoxious whistle again, and then yells, “Whoo! Andy!” 

A few hours go by; they watch good bands, terrible bands, so-so bands, and Patrick thinks Joe was right — they could totally do better than most of them. Pete is surprisingly easy to talk to and makes the best kind of terrible jokes. Even though they’re only spending the day together as a backup plan of sorts, Patrick really hopes they can keep in touch. Pete talks about upcoming gigs, about clubs and venues in the city, and Patrick is already thinking of getting Joe to cover for him with his mom, trying to sneak past security. Joe’s been known to do it, sometimes — but Joe, of course, looks about ten years older than Patrick on a good day.

They get something to eat and Pete gets them another couple of beers. Patrick’s now broke and just a bit tipsy. He’s kind of lost track of who’s playing by now; all he knows is the speakers are belting out a funereal beat while the sky has opened up again, the clouds still looming on the horizon. Of course, as soon as the sun came back out, Patrick started sweating again. He takes off his hat, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and rakes his hair back before pulling his hat back on. 

“Thirsty?” Pete says, loud enough to make himself heard over the distorted bassline, offering his water bottle, and when Patrick turns to take it he’s hit with — something, a feeling he can’t quite place, at the way the sunbeams seeping through the clouds seem to paint Pete in gold just then. His skin, his eyes, even his ridiculous hair, overgrown undercut and messy highlights, all of it golden. 

So maybe Patrick is a bit more than tipsy, whatever, he’s not a day-drinking kind of guy. Pete, luckily, isn’t creeped out by his staring, or doesn’t even notice, and he just looks back at him with dark eyes as Patrick downs his water, remembering at the last second to leave a couple of sips for him. Their eyes stay locked for a long moment and then Pete looks towards the stage and says, “These guys think they’re Bauhaus or something,” and Patrick laughs, and the spell is broken, and like. What the fuck was that?

It’s early evening by now; the queues for the food stalls and the bars get longer and longer as the Bauhaus-wannabes vacate the main stage. Everyone in the audience looks dirty and sweaty and kind of wilted, people plopping down on their own bags on the ground after standing up for hours. 

Joe and Marie are still nowhere to be seen. Patrick takes his phone out of his jeans pocket and presses the home button. The screen stays black. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to check in on Joe, make sure he hasn't been murdered or something, but my phone's dead.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, that girl didn’t look that dangerous,” Pete says, smiling. “And besides, there were way too many witnesses.”

Pete is clearly trying to make him feel better, but mostly Patrick feels very young and stupid as he acknowledges that he’s tired and kind of achy all over by now and he misses his best friend and he just wants to go home, shower, and have a snack. His phone dying on him has made him anxious, and the clouds are still lurking on the horizon, like huge fluffy cats waiting to pounce. The only part he’s ready to admit out loud to someone else is, “Joe was my ride home.” 

“That’s not a problem, I can give you a ride. Where do you live?”

“Evanston.”

“Really? Dude, that’s like ten minutes from my place! Don’t worry, I’ll get you home safe and sound,” Pete says, clapping a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and letting it linger there. It feels more reassuring than Patrick would like to admit. Pete seems to run very warm, judging from the way his palm burns heat through the thin cotton of Patrick’s t-shirt. Or maybe it’s the way the air has turned chilly, the wind picking up again, much stronger than earlier. 

Patrick shivers. 

It’s getting darker; the floodlights turn on as people start to converge towards the stage. Someone important is probably going to play next, but they’ve watched so many bands today that Patrick doesn’t really care anymore. Pete seems into it, though, stretching on his toes to see the stage, where roadies are still setting up. The crowd hums and buzzes in waves. Then, all of a sudden, the temperature drops, and Patrick looks up and sees it.

It’s a _thing_ , a compact lead-colored mass, rolling in from the horizon and towards the concert area, and fast. The wind fills the plastic sheeting at the side of the stage, blowing it up like a balloon, and Patrick’s brain absurdly offers an image of the stage weighing anchor and sailing away. Pete starts yelling, “What the—” but before he can finish, the rain comes. Though the word feels inadequate — this is something more than “rain”, a solid wall of water rushing towards the crowd. It seems to gush from the ground rather than fall from the sky, a gray wave covering the stage and then the mass of people surrounding it, starting from the barrier until it gets to where Patrick stands frozen in the middle of this white noise of howling wind and shrieking people. It hits him like a punch and he’s instantly drenched. Everyone’s screaming and running in every direction; someone bangs into his shoulder, his side, the back of his head, his chest. His brain finally comes back online and he thinks something stupid like, _This is going to make a great story someday_ and then, _Joe!_ and then _Oh fuck, Pete!_ Because Joe was probably already somewhere else, somewhere safe and private with Marie, but Pete was standing right next to him, and now he’s not. 

This is, for some reason, what finally gets him to freak out properly, and he starts looking around in panic until he spots the skeletons on Pete’s shirt, blinking in and out of view a few yards away. He put actual glow-in-the-dark skeletons on his shirt, and thank god for questionable fashion choices. Patrick stumbles the few steps in that direction, grasps Pete’s shoulder like a lifeline. When Pete turns he’s clearly panicking too, wide-eyed, but he immediately clutches Patrick’s arm too hard and smiles, too wide and bright by a mile. 

“What the _fuck_?” Patrick asks him in earnest, but Pete only shakes his head and yells back, “Let’s get out of here!”

That seems an excellent plan, so Patrick just says, “Lead the way,” and Pete grabs his hand and does exactly that. They’re both soaked to the skin, and the rain’s falling so hard that it hurts, and Patrick lets Pete drag him forward while he just stares at the way Pete’s weird shirt clings to the planes of his back like plastic wrap.

Pete zigzags confidently through the crowd; it feels like they reach the exit in the blink of an eye, make their way through the huge parking lot in another. 

When they get to Pete’s car, they jump in and slam the doors, shutting the rain and the noise outside. It’s very quiet now, except for the sounds of their breathing and of their clothes and hair and assorted body parts dripping on the seats. 

“You okay?” Pete asks, panting, his voice rough, and Patrick tries to croak out something reassuring but only succeeds in shuddering very hard with his whole body.

“Wait wait, I should have something—” Pete says urgently, and kneels up on the seat to reach back towards the back. Patrick waits and shivers some more as Pete rummages around god knows where. Pete’s hair is clinging to his face and that horrible glow-in-the-dark skeleton shirt is riding up, revealing just the slightest sliver of rain-and-sun-kissed skin. He finally reemerges with a black rumpled thing in his hand and offers it to Patrick. “Here. Sorry to make you wear my merch, but at least it’s dry.”

Patrick takes it — it’s a t-shirt with the now familiar hugging skeletons printed in orange on the back. 

“Thank you,” he croaks out, and then looks back at Pete, who’s watching him expectantly, and then back down at the dry t-shirt in his own hands, and finally at the place where his own shirt clings wetly to his tummy, and feels himself blush to the root of his hair. Pete shakes himself and says, “Oh! Sorry,” and looks away, busying himself with the heating controls. 

Patrick shrinks back in his seat, turning slightly towards the door, and peels off his shirt and puts on the dry one as fast as he can. The feel of the dry warm cotton against his clammy skin is amazing; he’s still soaked through everywhere else, but he feels ten thousand times better already. Knowing he’s wearing the skeletons makes him feel for a second like he’s joined some sort of exclusive club that’s just him and Pete. And whoever buys Pete’s band merch, whatever — _they_ ’re not here, in this Honda Civic who’s seen better days but can still protect the two of them from what lurks outside. Patrick feels weird, his head is spinning, and of course he’s cold, obviously he’s hungry, but this might be the safest he’s ever felt since he was a little kid. The pounding of the raindrops on the windows, the dark enclosing them, and this boy who smiles like the sun and likes sad songs. 

When he looks up, Pete is half naked and rooting around in the back seat again, muttering, “Fuck, I can’t find my size, oh, whaveter,” and finally extracting another black piece of fabric, unfolding it and pulling it on.

This shirt has a tiny version of the two hugging skeletons printed in white on a front pocket. It’s probably a girl’s style, and an x small at that. Maybe more than one x, Patrick thinks. Basically, it is very tight, and the v-neck is very deep, and it would look ridiculous, except one of Pete’s tattoos peeks out just the tiniest bit, something pointy like thorns or barbed wire, and before he can think about it, Patrick reaches over and strokes a finger over the skeletons — they must be printed with some special material, velvety and standing slightly in relief. It feels nice, is the thing. And maybe he’s imagining it, but he thinks he feels Pete lean ever so slightly into the touch, so he doesn’t remove his hand. Honestly, he blames the shock. He’s pretty sure he just went through a traumatizing experience, something that was pretty close to being his very first panic attack, and he is absolutely allowed to blame any strange behavior on his own part on that, okay? So this is how he’s going to justify it in his mind, later, when he can _think_ — right now, he keeps stroking the soft material, and doesn’t look up, even when he feels Pete drawing his breath in sharply.

The pocket must be right above his heart, because Patrick can feel it beating wildly beneath his touch. Some vaguely self-aware part of him is ready to admit that he’s been fighting the urge to reach out and touch for most of the day, since Pete laughed with him at Joe’s desertion, maybe, or just, honestly, since he aimed that smile of his in Patrick’s direction. 

Pete’s not moving, but Patrick feels him tense as he leans in, runs his hand along Pete’s side, above the soft cotton. Pete lets out a sigh, a soft and shivery exhale, and even if Patrick could find it in himself to stop touching him, it feels more impossible with each second. He wraps his other hand around Pete’s bicep, feels it prickle with goosebumps under his touch. “Can I—” he blurts out, though he’s not at all sure what he’s asking. Patrick has to look up at Pete then, who’s not touching back, who’s not saying anything, because maybe — oh god, maybe he doesn’t want this, maybe he’s just humoring the stupid kid with a crush, waiting to let him down easy. But Pete is just looking at him with huge, dark eyes, an expression that Patrick can’t begin to decipher, and then he springs into action, knotting one hand in Patrick’s shirt and curling the other one behind his neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touch, and saying, breathless, “Yes, yes you can,” so Patrick kisses him. 

Pete kisses back, but they’re both smiling, so it’s a bit of a mess — there’s too many teeth, and Pete is still trying to sneak in some words. Patrick pulls him closer, and it’s the opposite of comfortable, between the edge of the seat digging into the back of his thigh and his jeans still sopping wet, but they hold each other close and Pete tilts his head, finding the perfect angle to soften the kiss and fill Patrick’s stomach with angry butterflies. Patrick breaks the kiss to catch his breath, and then decides to kiss Pete’s neck, the curve under his jaw, and tries not to die on the spot at the agonized sound Pete makes at that, and then Pete’s saying his name, trying to get him to focus maybe. He’s saying, “Patrick, listen, if this is, like, a side effect of the adrenaline, we should maybe stop, because—” 

“What?”

“— because I really like you, okay, and I really like kissing you, but—”

“So kiss me,” Patrick says, adding only in his mind: _idiot_. 

“— but I mean. I don’t want to make out with you in my car and never see you again, like, I want to hear you play with Joe, I want— I think we should try making music together.”

“Okay, yeah, okay, but we can do both, right?” Patrick asks, and he can’t help noticing that Pete hasn’t let go of him yet. “Music and kissing?”

“Just kissing?” Pete says, but he’s smiling, teasing, so Patrick knows he’s won. 

“I mean,” he says, trying for the driest tone he can muster while his chest is filled with fireworks. “We’re kind of in the middle of a car park full of people, so…”

“ _Patrick_. I meant _dating_. Music and dating. Would you like that? With me?” 

It’s strange how life turns out, Patrick thinks. He’s cold, wet, hungry, stuck in a stranger’s car that’s gradually getting warmer and filling with the romantic smell of wet dog, and he thinks this might just be the best night of his life. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” he replies, and this time. This time, Pete smiles like the sun coming out of the clouds, kisses him like a thunderstorm. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to the organizers of the prompt challenge! This almost killed me but it was a very fun way to almost go!
> 
> This is for [Fluffy_Stuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffy_Stuff/pseuds/Fluffy_Stuff), because without her help, I would never have finished this story (but any remaining mistakes or weirdness are all on me.)
> 
> P.S. you can totally come tell me I used far too many weather metaphors [on tumblr](https://carbonbased000.tumblr.com/)


End file.
